When we arrived in New York City, our names changed almost immediately.
At Immigration, the officer asked my father, Mister Elbures, if he had anything to declare. My father shook his head no, and we were waved through.
I was too afraid we wouldn’t be let in if l corrected the man’s pronunciation, but I said our name to myself, opening my mouth wide for the organ blast of the a, trilling my tongue for the drumroll of the r, All-vah-rrr-es! How could anyone get Elbures out of that orchestra of sound?
At the hotel my mother was Missus Alburest, and I was little girl, as in, “Hey, little girl, stop riding the elevator up and down. It’s not a toy.”